Alice: “The Antipathies”!
The stolen poem --- Autumn/Spring 2012
Jayme Washburn Simon Petkovich Skuld Yolanda Mora ANTI VOX an LIMITED Marian Webb Fraser Mackay Aurora Losada Nike E. Bottalico Matthew Wong
autumn in northern hemisphere/spring in southern hemisphere 2
Jayme Washburn You are Here now we are owls when it is late the night spreads dust and shadows unfurling like an antique map cut up with the broken lines of travelers well worn routes of reckless curiosity stunning, worth more than sleep high above the timber line there are storytellers cartographers these ancient hours graze where we are thin where a hand is felt the most years ago stars died and now we see them ghostly with internal light alive with secrets haunting when no one wonders when no one watches sighing when the world walks sleeping we look up with questions and instead their light asks us for love, to be seen to turn heads 3
to be forever, these stars once they were foolish young and beautiful lighting up the sky like nothing ends a message repeated an infinite loop here we are we are still here always we are
Today is your anniversary A small piece of metal is what tethers me to the news of you You are thousands of miles away dying and I am trapped here about to give birth To a daughter you’ll never know never hold Face messed with tears the day turns cruel while I wait for the news I dread the call the words She's gone I know they’re coming
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Such small words will destroy me We move about the day like it’s any other A hip barrista scorns me for buying coffee the father of my child, embarrassed Steps away from me like a stranger while we wait in line Something in me churns and stirs I am a wild animal without social graces Holding a piece of shit metal instead of a hand Everything is wrong in a moment you will be gone forever I should be with you, my mother the one who loves me most in this world I run from the coffee shop and let the solid of a building hold me up when I fall The birds should drop from the trees blue of the sky, why don’t you cry? All the air should be let out In one crushing punch Screaming at the traffic would make this better instead I fold, a sad mammal in the street
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Cover me in a blanket of stars leave kindness on my shoulders if you will Stare if you will you fools they will never know The way you'd wave at strangers wildly, when you walked down the dirt road by your home I used to get embarrassed when you'd come into my work and do a cartwheel I was so foolish I had everything all wrong You are love and when they call You with the biggest heart of them all will be gone.
Jayme Washburn lives in Northern California with her daughter. She moved there to be near the world's tallest trees. She misses the written word and wonders why nobody writes letters anymore. If you would like a pen pal to exchange letters and poems with please send your contact info to tatiebird@gmail.com
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Simon Petkovich THE SKY SONATA here at the center by blue comfort handfed clouds grow fat.our skyblue placenta.across his blue office the buzzard blazes.
THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY a leaping treefrog my heart.my heart is in the highlands.is under the homeless man's bridge.is a cheap fridge magnet.a month
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long blizzard.a bluetongued lizard.the boat in the bay.the one that got away.
LOVEDOVE stone idols such as greed burstingwithlight words crack open.crack open and the lovedove from within release.
NOW dusk's pink whispers just dawned on me and onto our garage rooftop 8
peartree branches no other moment than now etch
CARROTS religiously dangling that little mirror glass bead technological wonderland carrot
DOMAINS 1 the insomniac teller's countdown to dawn 9
2 the feeding frenzy of maggots
3 eagle lookout airspace
4 rat tracks down the corridors of power
5 into the night highway drivers dive
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the brave orange dawn just galloped in and nuzzled at our feet
this starry nitea flickering field of fireflies, seeds in a long watermelon of delite
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HOME
home is where the heart is. amidst the unknown.amidst the tying up of loose ends to tight beginnings. releasing them to the wind.
WINTER 1 a few doghairs on a child's coat collar 12
2 flooded by the faintsun of the endof winter blueberries
BIRDSONG
1 an avalanche,a bolero of unravelling nos. ... the now clear birdsong.
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2 surrender to the totality of birdsongits treegreen essence, its skyblue vowels of piercing ice.
DAYBREAK daybreak clears its throat springs into action into magpiesong poetry-
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pierces the heart of steel,watches dewdrops rise, caress the hair of lightning
IN AWE in awe of your gall pearl,your feasting on sunlight sunflower, this gliding across your own silver trail snai 15
a thoughton the grass a tiny cloud shadow
MEAT stars are meat and olivetrees and babygoat bleetings are meat on the bones of my being
NIGHTDIP give me anything
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from gaia's repertoire of the realgive me maggots and tiger fangs, bees at rest in the amber of time,bubbles of crabfroth, winter dawn in the ice stiffened grassin short:give me a nightdip in her ocean of plenty anyday over this urban landscape's this heartbreak hotel's skeletal grip
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ARTIST STATEMENT
in my poems truth/nature/love (seen as one)are luminous,omnipresent and omnipotent,are a self-created (come forth from the void),self-regulating entity,are magical,a mystery.i have no gods or masters and see poetry as a catalyst that can (when successful)help us catch a glimpse of the spirit,of truth/nature/love and render them visible.by embracing them as a mystery my inner and outer landscapes merge,become one.in my poems i also write about man's self-destructive seperation from nature,about his onanistic,his spiritually crippling obsession with that which is sterile and destructive-an obsession with the control of fellow humans and nature-throught the institutions of religion,politics and finance.
Simon Petkovich (b.'62,perth,west australia)-writing since'77,published since'80-among others in'artlook',perth,'80;'the fred',london ,'89;'brussel sprouts',maine,'94;'fremantle stories',anthology,cliff st publishing,fremantle,'95;'verandah',melbourne,'95;issues 1,2 and 3 of the first online poetrry/tattoo ezine 'holly rose review';a chapbook 'forests of clarity' by longhouse publishers,vermont,'09;a chapbook 'the brave orange dawn' by 24th street irregular press,sacramento,california,'10 and a short listed poem'laughter' in page seventeen magazine,issue,10,melbourne,'10.he is married and with his wife and two young sons lives in melbourne where he works as a croatian interpreter.
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the silver spurrs of childhood,2009
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bonsai buddha,2010
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in a flash,2012
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love (take the plunge),2009
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no kinder night,2001
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i,2007
Works for sale. Contact: jacemikema@hotmail.com 24
Skuld and Yolanda at work
Yolanda+Skuld
Static electricity
[…] puzzles. To puzzle.
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Leaving tracks to follow a path To puzzle or embrace Something else
I couldn´t or wouldn´t embrace shadows anymore Even if he´s gone, will be gone, and it´s gone Even if my core is open Never constrained with chains of gold And that key I remember in my electricity, Hair and skirt, blue wool.
My core shall stay open Rivulets of piss or gold China teacup i throw To Kirchner´s face Don´t follow me —
China cracks The core never mended (its uses) Like a saint, foolish girl
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China teacup cracks Mended with gold, That´s Japanese! To keep everything, keep at it Forever more And the fucking planet is throwing Her teacup to your painted face A photograph A Diary Her A memory, a lie
Mended thing, a thigh, the skin
Men of my life Rivulets of piss from my heart
And my mom and my dad.
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Burning the last ashen Thighs
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Throwing passionate pages away Gone wrong against the sun Light Alive things Like a heart.
Throwing up what you shouldn´t... (but so necessary)
(he) upside down Throwing up
Seeking Beauty in a miserable life. You´re here in your will, The heiress of photographs, A philosophy there. Still misconstrued.
And now i´m following you.
by Yolanda Mora
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Skuld
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ANTI VOX an LIMITED
ANTI VOX an LIMITED quark AMNESIA 47 http://antivoxanlimited.bandcamp.com/ http://amnesia47.bandcamp.com/album/hemi-sync http://quarkcatastrophe444.bandcamp.com/ 29
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Yolanda
mad magdaline drawings
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Jackie
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Jackie
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Jackie
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Marian Webb
Roses unopened Roses on high stems have withered unopened. Heads of every size, red rose-heads have withered on high thorny stems above the high walls of the garden. We've arrived with strings and drums to sing the histories of roses withered on thorny stems, like poems stalled in withered notebooks. They wither unopened among thickets of thorns that sprawl above the high walls piercing the sky.
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Dream of broken scissors Nothing is ever still. The particles dance. At night I don't rest. I chase my bird-shaped scissors. They fly flapping their gold-plated rings into the nook of the corner store. I stand at the counter enraged, ashamed. Someone has wrung the neck of a bird. The sad blades rest in my palm.
Dream of dark and bright The women lie embracing. Her dark hair. Her bright hair. She says, summer is coming The light lifts. The days are getting longer.
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She says, night comes veiled in my dark hair. They lie embracing on the concrete under the slatted bench. Flowers spread their petals, their roots Inherit the earth.
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Dream of the water woman The woman's hanging washing on a line. Somewhere a child. A dog runs through a narrow space. The woman hefts a sheet from a damp basket. Where's the child? The dog runs. Its tongue lolls. The woman is seen
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through a narrow space. White sheets draped on the line hide the child. The dog runs getting bigger, closer. It wags its tail. Where will I find you, water woman? In the dripping of a tap? The weave of a dish-cloth? The gutter? The cloud? The child counts its fingers and toes. The dog runs. A sheet dries in the wind.
Dream of blue-stone Here we live among blue-stone lanes leading between walls into the shadow city. Dancers depart the clubs after dark , their tall shoes clatter on the curb.
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The watcher in the high window counts the hours, boiling a brew on a stove, the ledge above the range supports portraits, etched eyes follow the guests among the furniture, come from summer into winter down under the earth where we whirl widdershins. Blue figures spattered on white walls leap and twirl, dive and crawl, and fade as the stars fade, exposing spines and skulls. I call to them as they spin clockwise into noon, leaving the gate unlocked, their voices hidden in the wind.
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Balaclava railway station
Marian Webb lives in Melbourne, Australia. She and Yolanda Mora are coeditors of The Stolen Poem. http://issuu.com/thestolenpoem http;//issuu.com/marianwebb http://marianwebb.blogspot.com.au
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Fraser Mackay opus at 4
nothing like expected
the universe
glimpsed from side-on now waiting for some ephemera hosanna like
to clutch
run a giddy mile
ice formed in these unexpected hours a vision of Scott
dead at the pole
his dog tied to a sled huddled against the bitter wind
on the mainland
night shadows
slid the tarmac
white doves
circled the black-slashed-dross-fallen-sky
this madness
is not authentic
like yesterday’s grey wash — but not so unpleasant the arc of the door
to go within swinging closed.
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in paddocks
through the coursing air our laughter, tugs at my shoulder I savor every nuance eye and word your moon-book jaw cuts through eyes-open cold-space lured here by vanity we negotiate suburbs — a desire I don’t understand like peasants, closed with belief we go about — unremarkable business
foxes
tired numbers rain on Tuesday's page
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weighing up the vixen
our love didn’t die but rather we killed it off
eating in the oak’s shadow cut in two an apple from Meredith
I make lists to fill the week — feelings I can’t decipher
I saw three this morning by the hammock-trees frolicking in winter coats.
Australian born Fraser Mackay resides in the Pyrenees Ranges, Central Victoria. His fourth collection of poetry inhale exhale will be published in Spring 2013. Fraser is also a free-lance editor and writes fiction and text for theatre. dframac@gmail.com
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Aurora Losada
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presents her book PAPÁ NO ESTÁ
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Contact Aurora Losada: www.facebook.com/CuentoPapaNoEsta www.papanoesta.blogspot.com.es
order books here: apartado de correos 54 c.p. 28529 spain 55
Nike E. Bottalico
Sorties
Shall I antagonize you to death? Bereft the symbols of love My life my attacks Vain vinegar and salts, Bathes my mouth In sour notes How shall I say sorry When it is so me?
Woman
She sat, gnarled hands folded, Still and silent Eyes watered, blue Cats surround her ankles Tails like ribbons, twirl
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Rounding calves Tranquil as the hands, Tie up leather shoes Worn, not broken She in a mid-length cotton floral dress Little flutters from a breeze as it crosses the porch Floats a handmade hem of a Reclusive woman. Happy
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Awakening
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What is hidden
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Nike E. Bottalico’s art is eclectic, modern, filled with fantasy or a mischievous cheekiness. Her art includes collage, paintings on canvas or paper, jewelry and fabric art. “I am fascinated by the usage of mixed media and collage. I like these mediums because of the outcome of combining several elements, creating various textures and color which will evoke a thought or mood in stories I tell in my art or my poems.” Nike is a graduate of Saint Edward’s University in Austin, Texas in Liberal Studies. She studied Social Work and Sociology. Nike has spent the last 21 years working for the State of Texas helping persons, children, elderly and persons with disabilities who cannot help themselves. Nike is looking forward to retirement and focusing on writing and creating art. Most of Nike’s writing is seen on Facebook or on My Space where she has written under the AKA of Musingsilence of LadyO. Nike is the mother of a son, daughter and has a 3 year old grandson. http://nikeebottalico.blogspot.com/
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Matthew Wong
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Artist based in Hong Kong, works with photography, painting, and poetry. Currently finishing a Masters of Fine Arts degree at the City University of Hong Kong School of Creative Media, but where ever I find myself my mind is always intently focused only on the act itself, in the here and now. 71
Yolanda Mora/Marian Webb editing the stolen poem Autumn/Spring 2012
Contact: thestolenpoem@planetmail.net jackiemorvic@yahoo.es